Face First: A Long, Slow Release

The rain hammered against the windows of our penthouse apartment, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my own heart. Ten years. Ten years I’d held this secret, a burning ember in the dark recesses of my mind. Ten years of fantasizing about a twisted, exhilarating surrender, a complete and utter loss of control. Tonight, it was finally happening. My wife, Seraphina, was everything I’d ever desired: intelligent, demanding, and exquisitely dominant. Her power radiated from her every movement, a silent command that both terrified and thrilled me.

We’d always danced a careful line between control and submission, a push and pull that kept our dynamic alive and interesting. She preferred me as the master, relishing the feeling of absolute power, but there were moments, like these, where she craved the opposite. Tonight, she’d chosen the latter, and I was willingly, desperately, falling into her grasp.

The evening had begun innocently enough, a shared bottle of vintage champagne and a discussion about our favorite films. Then, emboldened by the alcohol and the deepening connection, I’d confessed my darkest desire: the act of being dominated, forced to submit, and ultimately, to swallow my own cum. Her reaction had been a slow, deliberate inhale, a flicker of something akin to amusement in her dark eyes. “Does that bother you?” she’d asked, her voice a low, velvet rasp. The vulnerability in her gaze was both alarming and intoxicating.

Now, as she stood before me, clad in a meticulously crafted black leather corset, her presence was almost unbearable. The corset, laced tight across her torso, accentuated her curves, highlighting the power she exuded. A delicate silver choker adorned her neck, and her heels clicked rhythmically against the marble floor as she moved closer. Her black mini skirt barely concealed her legs, and the lace of her underwear peeked out from beneath, a tantalizing hint of what lay beneath. Full makeup completed the look, transforming her into a goddess of pleasure, ready to indulge my darkest fantasies.

She’d handcuffed my hands to the corners of the bed, a clear indication of her control. The scent of her perfume, a heady blend of musk and vanilla, filled the air, further intensifying my arousal. A pulsing, electronic beat filled the room – Rude Boy by Rihanna, one of our shared favorites – as she began to dance, her movements fluid and sensual. The sight of her, so close, so powerful, sent shivers down my spine. My cock, already hard from anticipation, throbbed with an urgent need.

As she moved closer, her body brushed against mine, sending waves of heat through my veins. Her breath ghosted over my skin, igniting a fire within me. “I want you to do something for me!” she hissed, her voice barely audible above the music. My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the rising tide of desire. “I want you to cum in your mouth. I want you to put your legs up over your head, aim your cock right at your mouth, and eat up all your cum! Can you do that?”

The words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation. My body reacted instinctively, my legs shooting up over my head, supported by pillows placed behind my back. The sight of my cock, exposed and vulnerable, aimed directly at my mouth, was both mortifying and exhilarating. The anticipation was almost unbearable. The rain continued its relentless assault on the windows, a soundtrack to my impending humiliation.

“Oh my God, thank you, thank you!” I blurted out, my voice choked with a mixture of fear and pleasure. Her laughter, a sharp, brittle sound, filled the room as she slapped my ass, a swift, decisive action that sent a jolt of electricity through my body. "Do it now!"

I obeyed without hesitation, the urgency of the moment overriding any lingering reservations. My body writhed in anticipation, the pressure building, threatening to erupt. The heat intensified, spreading from my core to my extremities. The rhythmic pounding of my heart echoed in my ears, drowning out the music. She remained impassive, observing my struggle with an almost clinical detachment.

As the moment approached, the scent of my own arousal grew stronger, clinging to the air. It was a primal, animalistic scent, both repulsive and irresistible. My muscles tensed, preparing for the inevitable release. With a final, desperate gasp, I let go. The torrent of cum surged forth, a thick, viscous stream that filled my mouth. The first wave was overwhelming, coating my tongue and the back of my throat. It tasted salty, acrid, and intensely satisfying.

Seraphina watched with a detached amusement, her eyes glinting in the dim light. She grabbed a stack of wet wipes and began to wipe my face, her movements slow and deliberate. The sensation of her cool hands against my heated skin was both shocking and incredibly pleasurable. The rest of my cum followed, a relentless wave of pleasure that washed over me. Each swallow was a victory, a small act of submission that brought me closer to her control.

As I continued to devour my own release, she continued to beat me off, her hands firm and unrelenting. The pain was exquisite, a constant reminder of my utter dependence on her. Her laughter echoed through the room, a triumphant sound that filled me with a strange mix of humiliation and delight.

When it was finally over, my body weak and trembling, Seraphina stepped back, her expression unreadable. She offered me a small, knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of the shared experience. The rain outside had begun to subside, replaced by a gentle drizzle. The air was still thick with the scent of arousal, a lingering reminder of our twisted encounter.

Later, as we lay tangled in the sheets, discussing the experience, I realized that this was more than just a one-time indulgence. It was a step closer to complete submission, a descent into the depths of pleasure and pain that Seraphina seemed to relish. And as I drifted off to sleep, the taste of my own cum still lingering on my tongue, I knew that this was just the beginning of our strange and exhilarating journey.

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